25 Days of Olicolm
by SerpentineJ
Summary: The 25 Days of OTP Christmas Challenge for Olicolm (Ollie/Malcolm). I'll try and keep up.
1. Garnish

**1. Getting out/putting up decorations (Garnish)**

"What the hell?" Malcolm looks around his kitchen, slightly bewildered. "Who the fuck-"

There's a plate of American cookies, fucking cookies, sitting on the island, obviously fairly fresh out of the oven if the melted state of the cocoa chips is any indication, and a small wreath of holly and pine, hand-woven, hanging on the wall in place of one of his empty picture frames.

He takes one and inspects it suspiciously, slowly making his way to his office.

There are Christmas lights strung up on his bookshelves, glowing warmly against the polished wood, softly illuminating the spines of his gold-embossed, leather-bound books, and the scent of cinnamon lingers in the air.

When Malcolm sees the bowl of homemade candied clementines sat on his desk, though, he can't help but grin and relax, realizing who must be behind this, slinging his bag on a nearby chair and climbing the stairs (there's a string of lights twined around the banister) to his bedroom.

As he expects, Ollie has fallen asleep on top of the duvet wearing Tucker's warmest fleece, looking quite peaceful, even with his laptop at his fingertips.

Malcolm smiles and gently dislodges the computer from the other man's grasp, placing it on his nightstand before walking to the closet, changing quickly into pajamas.

"Hey." He can feel his eyes softening as he kneels on the bed, stroking Ollie's shoulder gently. "Hey. Get under the fuckin' covers if you're going to sleep."

The other man murmurs and blinks awake. "Bloody hell." He says through a yawn. "Did I fall asleep?"

Tucker rolls his eyes. "Obviously." He slides under the covers and turns to Reeder. "Just get the fuck over here."


	2. Paper Trails

**2. Making Christmas cards (Paper Trails)**

Ollie pokes his head into Malcolm's office. It's late, the Number 10 building nearly deserted, and Christmas lights give the hallways a warm glow.

"Er. Malcolm?" He says, seeing the man at his desk, head bent over a piece of paper, scribbling in square, blocky script.

Christ, he thinks, making his way over to peer over his shoulder. Even his handwriting looks like he's shouting.

"What?" It takes a moment to register the fact that Tucker has shopped writing and is looking up at him, eyebrow raised. "I'm kind of fucking busy here, ya twat."

"How many insults have you manages to fit on that page?" Ollie chuckles, reading something about the pancreas and bamboo shoots. "Verbally eviscerating ministers on-" He pauses in disbelief. "Is that a Christmas card?"

The other man grins, sharklike. "Yep." He finishes the body paragraph, Reeder staring at him as he signs it with "warmest holiday wishes, Malcolm Tucker", cracking a grin when a subscript is added; 'seriously, go burn in hell'.

"Really? You're going to send that?"

Malcolm throws it on the top of a pile of completed cards. "It's not like I have a sparkling reputation. A bit of a bollocking in a card isn't going to make it any worse."

Ollie grins and picks up another card. "Remove the genitals… gasoline-assisted immolation…" He pauses. "Is this a card to yourself?"

Tucker immediately looks up, eyes wider. "Don't touch that."

"What? I want to know, what does the great Malcolm Tucker say to himself?"

"I will fucking kill you if you open that card. I will slice open your throat and strangle you with your own vocal chords, then remove each of your fingernails and claw your stomach open with the-"

It's too late; Reeder has already opened the card. Malcolm's eyes narrow further and he shifts, adopting a defensive fighting stance.

Ollie looks more and more shocked the farther down he reads.

Eventually he opens his mouth. "R-really?"

"What?" Of all the reactions he'd expected, this had not been one of them.

Ollie turns to him. "Is what is in this card… the truth?"

Malcolm can't lie, not about this, not to him. "Unfortunately."

The other moves unbelievably quickly and Tucker finds himself with a lap full of Junior Advisor, a warm pair of hips attacking his, arms snaking around his chest and gripping his shoulders.

When they separate a minute later the Director Of Communications is at a loss for words (and isn't that ironic) and Ollie is grinning like a fool.

"I've wanted to do that for so fucking long." He sighs.

Malcolm doesn't respond, just pulls him to kiss him down again.


	3. Comfort

****3. Sitting/snuggling in front of the fireplace with hot cocoa/tea (I'm so cliché) (Comfort)****

**NOTE: So I added another cliché to this; the hypothermia one. Yesss.**

**Also I felt tea was a little... overly British (don't kill me) so I went with hot cocoa to spice it up a bit.**

"Jesus Christ." Ollie's teeth chatter, shivering in his wet clothes as Malcolm bundles him in the door to his house.

"You're a fucking idiot." Tucker says for the hundredth time, shutting the door behind them. "Falling in the fucking tank."

Reeder glares at him, trying to look as threatening as possible while drenched like a sodden puppy. "Shut up, Malcolm."

The gray-haired man ushers him into the large, tiled bathroom, turning on the hot tap and plugging the drain in the bath. "I'll draw us a bath."

"You lit the fire?" Ollie chuckles in disbelief and pads over to the couch, feeling a great deal warmer in a set of fleece pajamas.

Malcolm walks back into the living room holding two mugs. "It's cold. Shut the fuck up."

When he hands him a cup, the sweet scent of chocolate wafting from the hot liquid inside, Reeder looks at him, half-laughing. "You're ridiculously domestic, Malcolm."

"Don't tell the press." Tucker flops down beside him. "They'll have a mass fucking coronary."

The other shifts closer, pressing their sides together and twining their free hands. They prop their feet up, legs tangling together and Ollie drags a throw blanket to cover them.

"It'll ruin your tough-guy reputation." He rests his head on the silver-haired man's shoulder, grinning up at him, brown eyes sparkling through dark eyelashes.

"Hmm." Malcolm can't help but smirk down at him, gray eyes soft. "Guess I'll have to keep you around, then."

They sit in a comfortable silence, the fire crackling and popping, hands joined, mugs steaming.

When Jamie lets himself into Malcolm's house, the key scraping in the lock, he nearly turns around and leaves at the scene he arrives at.

His friend is asleep on the white sofa, an empty mug in a relaxed hand, propped against the side of a thigh. His boyfriend is wrapped around him, one hand resting on his stomach, the other loosely tangled in Malcolm's, his head resting on the other's shoulder; their legs are propped up on the ottoman and . There's a thick, warm blanket draped over their laps and the firelight flickers over their faces, warming Tucker's sharp features and Ollie's chocolate curls, crackling and making the scene feel so damn domestic, Hallmark card worthy Jamie is torn between quietly leaving and waking them both up with a shout.

The latter would be quite funny, he muses. But his friend is happy, and Jamie will respect that.

And protect it from the fucking press-vultures.

He ignores the slight tremble of his heart, the tiny, thin crack in the glass at seeing Malcolm so confortable with someone else.

Uncharacteristically gently, he takes the empty mug from Ollie's hand and coaxes the other from Malcolm's slack grip, scoffing when he sees the residue of hot cocoa on the bottom.

Hot cocoa. _Honestly. Try to be a little sappier, Malc._

On his way out, Jamie can't help but snap a picture with his phone.

It'll make a great Christmas card.


End file.
